He apologized. Of course he apologized, and Jonathan’s apologies are works of art; they are three-act plays. He apologized, and I accepted that apology, therefore it must be over and done with. Except that I still feel the ring of those words. I still feel the weight of the abrupt realization of where I stand in the pecking order of Jonathan’s life, the realization that if this, my mother’s sudden death, is not significant enough, then there is nothing I can ever do to move up the order. It can’t be that I didn’t know that before. I moved the goalposts. Was it the news of my mother’s death that did that, or were they already stealthily inching out of their long-held positions? Had I already begun to suspect that if I stopped moving, there might be nothing of substance in my oh-so-busy life?

The program has moved on to a news update: the Deepwater Horizon search-and-rescue operation has been suspended; the oil rig itself sank yesterday afternoon. It sank, and I didn’t know. Ordinarily it would be inconceivable that something newsworthy would have happened—would have happened almost thirty-six hours ago—and I wouldn’t know. An image pops into my head immediately, of the burning oil rig, its thus-far indefatigable fires finally quenched by the rolling seas as it slowly slips under the water with stately majesty. I could turn on the television and see it for myself, live or recorded, but I’m far too tired. Instead I check all the doors and windows and turn off all the lights on the ground floor, and start to climb the stairs.

There’s a strong smell of cigarette smoke.

A wave of adrenaline races over my skin that makes me freeze then whirl round, looking right, left, expecting to see a slight girl with triangular hair and a lit cigarette . . . but then rational thought kicks in. I’m right next to the coats hanging neatly on their hooks by the front door. I sniff mine, and then Carrie’s. It’s faint, but there’s a definite scent of stale tobacco. They must have picked up eau-de-tobacco from the people smoking outside the Quaich, given that smoking is banned inside pubs and restaurants in the UK. I take two steps away from the coats and sniff the air again. Nothing. I climb the stairs to my bedroom. Then I go back downstairs and turn all the lights back on before I finally go to bed.